Dedicated to a random commenter - thank you for your continued support @stormbreaker_h :)

Chapter 5: One Step Forward (Part 1 of 2)

"Gardener! I want the Gaaaardener!" Amelia screeched as she bobbed up and down the hallways of Steersberg Manor. This morning, she sported a large green and brown dress, one which reflected the ire and gloom that bubbled inside of her.

She had woken with painful aches racking her head and body—the result of sleeping in a an overly padded skirt and stiff wig. Confused, it had taken her several moments of staring blankly at the ceiling to recall the events of the night past.

Drake Rohan.

Every damned thing in her present life came down to Drake Rohan. But in a world where men could freely divorce their wives and women had as much say in it as cattle being traded at the markets did, she needed to force his hand for her freedom.

"GAAAARDENERRRR!" Amelia raised her voice impossibly louder as she stomped her way up to Drake's living quarters.

She had waited in her room all night for him, entirely confident that he would come knocking, yelling and banging at her door as he did the night before, at which point she would have confessed her 'beastly' crime and he would have thrown her out his house. After all, she had ridiculed Isabella, slapped him, set off firecrackers, changed his meals, and let pigs and chickens in his room—all in two days' time.

And yet, while she remembered drifting off to sleep against a bedpost and dreaming of a warrior's loud battle cry, she remembered not of any abuse against her door.

There was only one conclusion: the Emir of Steersberg had a strange liking for cuddling up with beasts. Wretched Northman!

Amelia grimaced as she stepped on a small bone just outside of Drake's bedchamber. She swept it aside with a foot and turned to glower at the closed door. "Gaaaaaardnerrrrrr!" she cried out her rage. "Heigh, GAAAAARDNERRRRRRRR!" As her gaze fell to the brass keyhole, her lips curled into a proud smirk; her lock-picking skill was a quiet talent that surpassed her husband's brute force.

Feeling a smidgen more satisfied, Amelia turned on her heel and continued her scream-filled stroll around the manor until a pair of sleepy-eyed maids hustled her out to the manor grounds and pointed to a narrow cobbled path that would lead her to the gardener's hut. She doubted the gardener had much to offer towards her 'mission'. But if she had to stay here a little longer, knowing her way outside was better than curling up in her chambers.

As she had seen from her bedchamber, the garden was plain, its only colours coming from the wild dandelions and daisies that lined either side of the stone trail and dusted soft specks of white and yellow across the sea of neatly trimmed grass. She skipped clumsily along the winding path, stopping now and then to breathe in the scent of earth and nature at their purest. What a regular Southerner might find dull and crude brought on a remarkable calmness she had never felt before. If she was to stay and be the lady—or prisoner—of Steersberg Manor, a garden like this would give her plenty of room to plant...

Oh, herbs! The path had led her to a wooden hut surrounded by bushels of herbs grown in wooden crates and pots of varying depth and sizes. As she took a mental count of the species in this hidden sanctuary, excitement bubbled in her chest. If there was one thing she did learn well, it was the art of herbs. What better excuse to spend all day in the fields? She had come to love it for the mere reason that her father accepted the excuse.

At the sound of her approach, a slender man rose from his crouched position behind a large pot of rosemary. Surprise and confusion flashed across his youthful features before he smiled timidly. "M'lady? What brings you here?" he greeted, awkwardly patting off the dirt from his hands on his tunic.

Ignoring him, Amelia walked towards a pot of herbs with delicate white flowers. "You are the gardener?" She glanced at him over her shoulder. Too young to be a gardener, she thought. Yet he nodded, letting a lock of thick brown hair fall across his forehead. She arched a questioning brow, but returned her attention to the pot. "The valerian," she continued, gently caressing the small petals with the tips of her fingers. "Helps with sleep."

"M'lady, what—"

"The hemlock." She moved to the next pot, also tipped with clusters of white flowers. "Medicine in the hands of a good healer; a deadly poison otherwise."

"M'lady, I—"

"Cease 'my lady'-ing me. Come," she demanded, cocking her head in the direction of an array of small herb pots. "Show me what you have."

* * *

To Amelia's surprise, the eighteen-year-old gardener Sveinmodr—or Sven for short—knew as much, if not more, about plants and flowers as their fifty-year-old one back home. To her credit, Sven appeared just as delighted and impressed with his noble mistress' knowledge of herbs. From this, her friendship with the shy gardener formed as naturally as flowers emerged in spring.

"We have the largest plum orchard in all of Asis!" Sven flaunted, grinning boyishly as he led Amelia to the open field of thick plum trees and dandelions.

From up on her balcony, all she could see was a dense foliage of green leaves. Out here, the ripening red fruits glistened deliciously in the morning sun, their plumpness hinting at the sweet juices they contained. "Wow..." she exclaimed under her breath. Plum fruits were a rarity in the Southern Lands, where the only ones they grew were small and hard. Not like these... Her mouth watered.

"Until a moon ago, this was the grandest field of plum blossoms. More pink flowers than green leaves!" Sven said, drawing a wide arc in the air as if to illustrate the expanse of the plantation. "'Tis why m'lord had hoped that you would come by mid-spring."

A dubious expression washed over Amelia's face. "Drake? Why?"

"Why, we were told to expect you here by then, so we could hold your welcoming feast in the peak of bloom." Sven approached a low-hanging branch and plucked off a fruit. "Here," he said, holding it out to Amelia. "Try one."

She accepted it eagerly and took a generous bite into the red plum.

Within a matter of seconds, Amelia's features squished themselves together as an astonishing burst of sourness exploded on her tongue—the sort of sourness that roused in one a great desire to scream, yet hindered one's very ability to. Sven cringed with her for one quick second before he roared with laughter.

Still unable to speak, Amelia fisted her hands in her dress and stomped her foot. In doing so, she lost her balance with the heavy skirt and toppled backwards to land on her buttocks with a muffled cry. Sven's laughter rang even louder.

As soon as Amelia regained control over her senses, she opened her eyes to see Sven clutching at his belly, his body shaking, and the corners of his eyes wet with fresh tears of laughter. With a disgruntled 'hmph!', she reached for the hem of his tunic and pulled him down to the ground.

Sven fell on his knees and elbows with a yelp. He whipped his head around to see a fuming Amelia and chortled. "Did you like that?" he quipped.

No, no she didn't. What plum? It was sourer than fresh lemon! "How dare you!" She picked up the half-bitten plum from the ground and hurled it at Sven. He dodged with apparent ease. "What gardener in his right mind would plant an orchard of the world's sourest plums!"

"The sourest plums ripen into the sweetest, m'lady." Sven returned Amelia's reprehension with a grin. "These are fire plums, found only in the North. In a few sennights, when their skins grow fire red, they will be the sweetest fruits you will have ever tasted."

Amelia continued to glare daggers at him. "Then why did you offer an unripe one to me?"

"I didn't know a lady would take such a monstrous bite..."

The 'lady' in question retaliated by raising her leg and kicking the gardener square in the chest. He tumbled into the grass with another yelp.

Sven sat up languidly, a wide grin tugging at his lips as he held his arms out to block a playful punch. "I thought the lady with firecrackers would appreciate a joke!"

"Aye, she does..." Amelia murmured as her hand dropped behind her back and curled around a bunch of grass. With one discrete yank and a fling of her hand, she sent a handful of soil and grass into Sven's face. With a third, softer yelp, he waved his arms about, frantic to rid his face and clothing of dirt. Seeing stray pieces of grass and muck in his tousled hair, Amelia's scowl melted into a series of giggles.

"You will have to fight Tom harder than this for the plums come midsummer," Sven teased good-naturedly.

"Oh?"

"Tom makes the best cakes, pies and soups from these plums. 'Specially the sweet pies; m'lord never gets enough of them!"

Amelia nibbled at her bottom lip, her expression turning thoughtful for a moment before the sapphire in her eyes sparkled. "Sweet pies, you say?"

Neither of them noticed the figure leaning over a windowsill above, his dark eyes assessing the couple in the orchard below, where the sun shone upon them like a spotlight on a pair of actors in a play. He teased at her; she whispered in his ear; the sound of their laughter rang through the air like a gentle melody... Slowly, his brows drew close as he realised 'twas a scene that spoke of budding romance between the young gardener and... his wife.

Drake's lips thinned with silent rage as he thought of his stinking mess of a bedchamber. Family betrothal or not, he was not going to let Amelia ruin his reputation and life, whatever her intentions were.

"Duran," he called.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind him. "Sir."

Drake stepped away from the window to face his trusted armsman. "Keep an eye on her."